I never applied to Astra Hero Institute.
That's the first problem.
The second problem is the acceptance letter sitting on my desk right now.
The gold seal glows faintly in the morning light, stamped with the Astra crest — a seven-pointed star wrapped in a silver ring. The paper feels heavy. Expensive. Official.
And it has my name on it.
Ren Calder.
Accepted into Nova-1.
I stare at it like it's going to disappear if I blink hard enough.
"I didn't apply," I whisper to my empty room.
My hands are warm.
Too warm.
A small flicker of orange light dances across my fingertips before I quickly clench my fist and smother it. The air smells faintly of smoke.
Great. Of course I'm nervous.
I can control fire. Not a lot. Not like the top-tier heroes. Just enough to spark a flame in my palm, maybe shape it a little. I've practiced in secret for years.
It's manageable.
Normal, even.
What's not normal is the other thing.
The thing I don't talk about.
The thing I pretend doesn't exist.
I look down at my hands again.
I barely have control over it. It only works sometimes. Only if there's blood. And even then, it's weak. A twitch. A pause. A hesitation in someone's movement.
I don't use it.
I won't use it.
That's why Astra doesn't make sense.
They're the most prestigious hero academy in the country. They test thousands. Only a few hundred get in.
So how did I?
A knock sounds at my bedroom door.
"Ren?" Mom calls softly. "Are you going to open it or just stare at it all day?"
Right.
I grab the letter and head downstairs.
I don't know who enrolled me.
I don't know why I'm in Nova-1.
And I definitely don't know why, when I hold this envelope, it feels like someone just moved a chess piece.
And I'm the piece.